At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [223]
“It’s not true, you do so belong.”
Jim had tried to bring his arm round the high faraway neck, with clumsy inadequacy, and he could only leave his fingers latched on the shoulder, while the neck strained to follow the puttering engine above. Puttering which repeated now in his own chest as his breath unwilling sobbed.
“Oh Jim, don’t cry on me now.” The big arm came wrapping round, shrugging his paltry fingers from the shoulder, and pulling him close to the creamy soft cloth of his suit. “Aren’t you the beautiful boy of the world? And don’t you know I love you too much? Far too much to interfere between you and your pal. But I couldn’t bear to watch you with another always. It’s too much for me.”
“I don’t know what difference that makes.”
“If you don’t know that, my dear, you should never have swum to your Muglins at all.”
There was some shiloo on the sea-wall. Fellows weren’t watching the skies any more, but were gathering about some news. A startling intelligence, to tell by their faces. “Fairyhouse,” MacEmm said. “Apparently an outsider won the National.” He told Jim to go back to the house and mind after Doyler, that he’d see him this evening, they’d have that together. Then he got up and made his way to the road. Jim watched his walk, a strong leisurely stride, and his windy clothes billowing behind him. Then after a while, Jim got up too and went down by the sea-wall where the little men were big with faces.
Moments later, mad and tumultuous, he was haring through the garden gate. Up the lawns, through the garden doors, skidding on the polished wood, into the hall where he paused, panting, his hand upon the swirling knob of the baluster. His head brimmed with the news. His heart positively had leapt to his mouth. He must collect himself. There were too many things. He heard Mrs. Moore below in the kitchen. He went down. Yes, he said. Broth, he said. Sitting up, yes, that was good. He’d bring it, yes, himself, he would. And thanks now, Mrs. Moore.
He climbed the stairs, judicious of each step. His hurry of spirits-transferred to the tray: the spoon that rattled, broth that spilt on the bread and the good napkin. The door yawned. “Doyler?” He wasn’t sitting up at all. “Doyler, are you all right?” Groaning and his breath at a gasp. The poor fingers shook and picked at the bedding. A dread turn he had took. “Doyler?” He must fetch the doctor. The tray had set down: Jim found the flannel seized in his hand. He swabbed the forehead, saying, “Doyler, Doyler, can’t you hear me at all?”
His hand was nabbed, a strength jerked him down: great big slobber on his face, and Doyler saying, “Gaum you.”
“Eejit you!” shouted Jim with stunning ferocity. “The fear of God in me, you did.”
“Serves you right and all. Leaving me here to me fate.”
“You wasn’t left. You was sleeping sure.”
“All over me one minute, and I close me eyes, you’re off. Poor old Doyler can fetch for himself.”
“You had Mrs. Moore outside the door.”
“Any excuse to be gone of me.”
“A rotten low trick to play.”
Jim flung the curtains and day gushed in. What time was it, he wanted to know, what day was it even. Was that broth he smelt? His belly thought his throat was cut. Did Jim know at all what a horrible big house was this to be abandoned in it? And where was his clothes?
“It’s two, maybe three in the afternoon.”
“Give us here that tray. I’ve the hungry staggers whiffing it.”
Jim considered him while he ate or, better, slurped the broth. A fright he looked with his hair tussled and the pillow-creases on his face. He still looked pasty and his eyes lacked glister. “Easy,” he said, “you’re not the better of it yet.”
Doyler snorted a look. There was nothing ever the wrong with him. He was maybe tired, was all. He was maybe after neglecting himself a trifle in Dublin. Neglecting the inner man, he elaborated, patting his stomach. Patting it a touch too hard, for he let a groan, “Mary and Joseph, the cramp in me belly.”
“You got a bug out of the water,” said Jim complacently, taking the bowl before